The Hope Diamond

We just returned from visiting Washington DC with the boys. We had a really great time, the best being Charlie's enthusiasm for the things we saw. "Oh my gosh" was said on several occasions. The one thing Charlie really wanted to do was see the dinosaur bones in the Museum of Natural History, so we made that our top priority. After we saw all the dinosaur bones (and there are A LOT) we were "'sploring" and I saw a sign for the Hope Diamond, and I expressed my desire to see the "biggest diamond in the world." For some reason Charlie was instantly excited. We walked through the maze of displays of quartz crystals and semi-precious stones, all the way Charlie pulling me saying he wanted to see the "big diamond." We finally got to the display case, which was surrounded with oooing and aaahing adults. Charlie danced in excitement, trying to see around all the people. Finally it was our turn.

"Isn't is beautiful?" I asked.

"Is that it?" Charlie asked, gazing into the case at the necklace perched atop the rotating display stand.

"Well, yes," I replied.

"I thought it would be bigger than that."

I laughed. "How big did you think it would be?"

"As big as THAT," he replied, pointing to a four-foot quartz crystal in the corner.

My subsequent lecture regarding the concept of the rarity of a flawless diamond this size was delivered to the retreating six-year-old, who had run off to check out the elephant in the lobby.

Cranky Suzuki Mom

Ok, so I went off on the violin teacher today. Well, not really, but I wasn't polite. She's exactly what you would imagine a violin teacher to be like. Quirky, cranky. When we first decided Charlie was going to take Suzuki Violin Silly Me assumed our instructor would be Japanese. Nope, she's this upper middle class white American woman who is about 60 years old, and have I mentioned she's cranky? The mom of Charlie's friend said to me "I think Elyse is a little scared of Miss Ginny" to which I replied "Well, Miss Ginny is scary."

First let me describe the room. It's about 10 feet by 20 feet and it's filled with little tables and chairs. It's really a classroom in a church, that only seconds as The Central Ohio School for Suzuki Instruction. So we all cram in this room, ten or so kids with violins, their moms, quite a few siblings and Miss Ginny. I take Max and Atticus along because I refuse to double the cost of Suzuki Violin by hiring a sitter every week. Usually they do well. They play with the other siblings, the kids all share Goldfish Crackers, read books, color, whatever. Usually it's pretty mild. The last few weeks, though, all the kids have been kind of whack. It's probably a summer thing. Last week the room was particularly crowded because of the table/chair configuration and the siblings also were kind of raucus. We moms were doing our best to keep the siblings quiet and be the proper Suzuki Mom. To be honest, the kids weren't being particularly loud or anything but twice Miss Ginny yelled "Kids, be quiet." Yeah, right. You might as well tell a bunch of two and three-year-olds to be loud, it doesn't make a difference.

I gave it a lot of thought throughout the following week. I figured I would bring some toys and let the boys play in the hallway just outside the door. That way I could keep and eye on them and their noise wouldn't be disruptive. So wrong was I. When Miss Ginny busted into the room like the Witch Hazel on Sylvester and Tweetie (you know, the one whose hairpins are always a step behind her) the first thing she croaks is "Whose trucks are in the hallway?"

"Mine," I replied. "I was hoping to lure my kids out there since you yelled at them last week."

Without even looking at me she said "Well, we can't have kids in the hallway."

Next week I'm just going to have to just take a Xanax.

Special Sauce

A friend of ours told us that this was the summer her husband was going to have The Talk with their 9-year-old son. At the rate Charlie is going, there will be no need for a Talk. Maybe he'll give us a Talk when he's 9.

Last week we were all driving in the car and Charlie was babbling away, asking a million questions. Somehow we got on the topic of how babies are made. He told us he knew how babies were made. He informed us that the baby grows in the mommy's tummy but that the baby is part of the daddy too. He went on to tell us that the daddy part comes from the "sauce" that comes from his testicles.

"Where did you hear about this sauce?" I asked.

"Nowhere, " he replied, "I thought of it myself."

Mark and I looked at each other out of the corner of our eyes. Mark started to speak, but I waved him off and said, "Oh, really, Charlie? What color is the sauce?"

"Red, like blood," he replied, matter-of-factly.

Whew!

Photo Drama Continued

For those of you following my photo drama (having lost almost all photos since 2002 when our hard drive crashed) I FINALLY have some good news. There are about 100 of our absolute favorite pictures of the boys I had forgotten I had uploaded to Snapfish. I am so excited! See... a picture.

en·ti·tle·ment

I still can't believe what just happened to me. I took all four boys (my three and cousin Xander, aged 7) to the pet shop to buy dog food. As soon as we walked in the door, the boys headed for the cats, where there were two women standing nearby and a little girl, aged 7 or 8, with some sort of disability, perhaps Down Syndrome. As soon as Max, my adoreable two-year-old arrived on the scene, the little girl started pawing at him with increasing intensity. I watched, waiting, actually, for one of the two women standing there, one of which I assumed to be her guardian, to intervene. One of the girl's advances launched Max against the cat cage and he started to cry. I flew in, scooped him up, and played off the incident by saying "You have two older brothers, you'll be okay."

Max and I moved on to the fish, which are his favorite. As we stood there, the little girl approached again, this time with much more vigor, actually picking Maxie up, which always sends him into a whining tirade. I stepped in right away this time, picked up Max and said "Hon, you're invading his personal space." Out of nowhere comes her mother, and the following is word for word what transpired (pretty much):

Her: She wasn't going to hurt him.

Me: I didn't say she was going to hurt him, I said she was invading his personal space.

Her: Don't you see that she has a disability?

Me: Yes, I see she has a disability but that does not preclude you from making sure she follows the norms of polite society, such as not touching people without their permission.

Her: You're a bitch.

Me: You're oblivious.

Her: Kiss my ass.

At that point I told the boys we had to go, and all but Atticus complied willingly. Charlie (almost 6), who doesn't miss a thing, said, "Mommy why was that girl's mommy letting her pick up Maxie?"

"Well," I replied, "there are some people who think for one reason or another they don't have to follow the rules the rest of us follow."

To which Charlie replied, pointing out the window "Look, Xander, a concrete truck!"

Back It Up

Atticus: Mommy, why are you crying?

Me: Well, Mommy is just not very smart right now.

Atticus: That's okay, Mommy, you're still pretty.


Why was I crying? Why am I not smart? Why is there no cute photo of my son on this post? Let me tell you.

We have three pcs. Two desktops (the Dell and the HP) and an old laptop. The Dell was our old main pc which we stripped and gave to the boys for The Dora Game, The Tractor Game and all kinds of important stuff. It crashed a few months ago, and we didn't try to hard to fix it. The HP, which is only nine months old, became our main pc. We migrated all the data from the Dell to the HP: pictures, movies, finances etc. Well, two days ago, the HP crashed. The boy at Firedog said "Bad hard drive, but don't worry, you're under warranty." I smiled and thanked him, and calmly and politely asked if they could recover our data. "Maybe," he said, "we'll let you know at the end of the day." I smiled politely again. Inside I was screaming "Are you fucking kidding me? The end of the day?!?! Do you people realize I have every picture of my children since they were born on that pc?" No, I never got around to backing it up.

Now, I blame perfectionism and attention deficit disorder. I have sat down many times to back up My Documents. Every time I'd get engrossed in the photos, thinking how cool it would be to burn a slide show to VCD. I even went as far as two weeks ago purchasing a program so I could burn to DVD. We could all happily sit around the TV, reminiscing and watching slideshows of the childhoods of our boys.

Well, that evening the nice boy at Firedog called and apologized they could not even get a pc to recognize the hard drive, and the data was "too deep." He asked if I wanted to go ahead and exchange the bad drive out for a new one. "No," I said, "I'll come pick it up." I was working under the same premise as those who froze Walt Disney. Someday we'll have the technology.

Immediately I called my brother, who is a Computer Genius. He recovered the data from my laptop when that hard drive went bad. Okay, now you're thinking "She really is stupid, this happened to her before and she still didn't back up her drive." Well, please refer to my previous statement in blaming perfectionism and ADD. Anyway, I called my brother, the Computer Genius. His poor girlfriend probably thought someone died when I called, sobbing. Referring to the guys at Firedog my brother said "Those guys are idiots, bring it to me, we'll see what we can do." In defense of the idiots at Firedog, the nice boy was clear to me that all was not lost, but that that they only did a primary software data recovery. There were people who would take the thing apart and extract the data to the tune of $1600.

Well, that was last night. No luck yet, according to my brother, but he'll work on it more tonight. In the meantime I need to decide whether $1600 is worth it to get those pictures back. What would you do?

And oh, by the way, this is a cautionary tale. Go back up your hard drive. Do it now. I'm going to back up this crappy old laptop... as soon as I cook dinner.

Fiesta!

According to Wikipedia: "Political correctness (often abbreviated to PC) is a term used to describe language or behavior which is intended, or said to be intended, to provide a minimum of offense, particularly to racial, cultural, or other identity groups."

In Charlie's Pre-K class, this week was "Multicultural Week," which you would think would uphold anyone's standards for political correctness. The highlight of the week, at least according to the kids, was today's "Fiesta." They made a piñata, made and wore red sombreros and had nachos and chips for snack.

A group of moms was congregated outside the door as they released the kids at the end of the day. One by one the children emerged, the boys with "pencil-thin mustaches" and the girls with "beauty marks" painted on their faces in black chalk. I gave it a moment, glanced around at the other moms, then locked eyes with my friend, Betsy, who I could tell was on the same page as me.

"Is something wrong here?" I whispered.

"It's not exactly politically correct, is it?" Betsy responded, laughing.

Nope.

Yes, Officer, Striped Pajamas

This has happened to every parent. It even happened to me once before. Charlie (5.5) and Atticus (4) wanted to go outside and draw on the driveway with chalk, so I sent them on their way. Then I heard Max (2) yelling that he was finished with his nap. I went upstairs, got Max out of his crib, changed his diaper, and carried him downstairs, as he was saying, in the cute way only a 2-year-old can "outside, outside" meaning he wanted to go outside and play with his brothers. When I stepped out the back door I didn't see the brothers.

"Charlie," I called. Nothing.

They must have gone into the garage, so I walked out there.

"Charlie," I called again. Nothing.

Maybe they were on the second floor of the garage.

"Charlie," a little bit louder this time. Nothing.

Back into the house. "Charlie!" Nothing.

By now I am screaming. All over the house and the grounds. Around front, I look up and down the busy street. Nothing. Then I start to think "What were they wearing?" in case I have to tell the police. Charlie was wearing a blue spiderman t-shirt, blue sweats and red Crocs. Atticus had refused to get dressed for the babysitter this morning, and by the time I got home at noon, I felt like it was a lost cause. So I had images, not only of having an Amber Alert out for my kids, but the media relaying that, indeed, one of the children was wearing striped pajamas and silver Crocs at 2 o'clock in the afternoon.

I snatched up Max from the back porch and ran into the house, screaming desperately "CHARLIE!!!" This time I hear a feeble "Yes, Mommy" from the basement.

I am sure the swat on the butt hurt more through the pajama bottoms than it would have had Atticus just gotten dressed.

We're Moving

We're moving. More accurately, we're trying to sell our house. It breaks our hearts since we have lovingly restored this old mansion from top to bottom, and planned to live here for many years. What changed our minds? Read on.

We live in the midtown area of Columbus, Ohio. Our neighborhood has a very urban feel to it, and we live on a main street, so you really get the city feel here with the bums peeing in the bushes, buses tearing by, and fire truck sirens at all hours to the day. The other city "perk" we get here is Columbus City Schools. When we moved here in 1999, we knew we would eventually have kids. We thought the diversity in this neighborhood would be good for kids, and as for the busy street, no problem. Kids in NYC simply learn to stay away from the street, right? Anyway, one of the best Catholic schools in the city is right across the street, and since my husband came up through Catholic schools, it was assumed that any kid we had would as well. Well, that was before Charlie.

If you read this blog, you already know that over the past year we have had some behavioral problems with Charlie both at school and at home. He is currently in Pre-K at a local pre-school. After taking him to see a child psychologist, we decided the best thing for Charlie would NOT be cookie-cutter, rote-style Catholic school. Coming to that conclusion meant one of two things: we either send him to city schools or we move to the suburbs.

Well, as a long-term plan city schools are out of the question. As a result of the No Child Left Behind Act, the district as well as over half the schools in the district are in "academic emergency." That means if your neighborhood school is in academic emergency, you get first priority to lottery in to any other city school. Our neighborhood school is one of two schools people try to lottery in to. That's really here nor there, but our issue is this... if the district itself is in academic emergency, then how good could the very best school in the district really be? So... we decided to move.

Now, the housing market in any upper middle class suburb of the city is quite a bit more expensive than our current situation. Since we are moving solely for schools, we decided to base our choice solely on schools. Through my research I narrowed it down to a suburb southwest of the city (UA), and one north of the city, where, ironically, I began my career of raging against the cliche (where I went to high school), which I will call W.

We started looking for houses in W. There are plenty of nice houses there, but one problem. I had a miserable childhood, so we couldn't move into the neighborhood I grew up in. But as we drove through other neighborhoods, we discovered "there is where my friend Callie crashed her car, there is where my x-boyfriend Carl lived" etc. Uh, not going to work.

So presently we are looking for a house in the much more expensive UA. I am starting to get nervous about selling our house (who wants a big ole house on a busy street?). We already made an offer on one house, but they wouldn't accept a contingency to sell this one, so here we sit, waiting. We have to have proof of residency to sign Charlie up for school in UA, so if we don't have that in time, our back-up plan is the city school. Heck, one year of school amongst the sons and daughters of crack dealers may be an educational experience.

The G-Word?

Okay, I admit it, we're taking our 5 1/2 year-old to therapy. This isn't therapy like a box of tissues and "family of origin" issues (at least I would hope not yet). So far the therapist has met with hubby and I once, Charlie once, and me twice. Okay, I see where this is going.

First of all, since he was about 2 1/2 Charlie has had "behavioral issues." He's defiant, sometimes angry, contrary and grumpy. Sound familiar? Sounds like his mom! Anyway, the whole frustration came to a head in October when I went to his parent/teacher conference (my husband was out of town). Every conference we've ever had we have braced ourselves for the worst, expecting Charlie to be as much of a brat at school as he is at home. So we'd go into the conference and they'd tell us how great Charlie is, what a good listener, well-behaved. We'd look at each other like "Are we all talking about the same kid here?" The experts say as much trouble as your kid is at home, if he behaves at school, you're doing something right because he has developed a sense of comfort at home but has also learned the boundaries.

So in October I go into his first Pre-K parent/teacher conference. Our frustration with Charlie had been mounting since school had ended the year before, but I had the memory of the other conferences to soothe me. "He's fine, just a rebel like his mom." I mentioned to the teacher that we had been having trouble at home with Charlie and she confirmed that they had some of the same issues at school. I got a little worried. "Well," I said, fishing for some sort of reassurance, "we have been thinking of getting some professional help." The reassurance did not come. "I think that would be a good idea," was her response.

So, we are getting the professional help, sort of. To the tune of $160/hour, the therapist gave me the run-down of the standard parenting tricks. Time-out, taking away privileges, sticker charts, the whole nine. Finally, yesterday, after her fourth little suggestion I had to stop her. "I'm not trying to poo-poo everything you are saying," I said. "It's just that my husband and I are very educated people. We've read the parenting books. The standard fare does not work with this kid. If it did, we wouldn't be here." We agreed that my husband and I would return together the following week. By then the questionnaires would be returned from the teachers. We could go from there.

As I was leaving, I told the therapist I was confused (not really, as I mentioned, I see where this is going). She met with Charlie once. For 45 minutes they played chess with army guys. She was able to ask a few questions, and actually get a few answers before he said "Can we stop talking about this, please?" How could she possibly see what's wrong with Charlie?

Let me tell you where I think this is going...

1. It's all my fault. Hey, I watch Nanny 911. There are no bad kids, only bad parents. Mom needs to be more consistent, Mom needs to pay more attention to him, Mom needs to intervene when Charlie gets bored, Mom needs to get more involved at school.

2. Like me, my brothers, my sister and my husband, I think my child is brilliant. I think his brain is far more advanced than his emotions and he struggles for a balance. I think he's bored at school. I think he thinks we're all idiots. I think he does need more of my attention (please let me remind you, Dear Reader, that Charlie has two younger brothers), more consistency and most importantly, he needs challenged.

What's the g-word, you ask? Gifted. He fits the profile like a poster child. "Gifted." That term makes me laugh. I have learned that there have been tremendous strides in the understanding of the complicated needs of gifted kids since I flunked out of the "gifted" program when I was ten. You may think that this realization would bring us pride and hope. Nope. We are standing at the bottom of a tall mountain looking up. There will be summer homeschooling, enrichment classes, learning to help him deal with his anxiety, hand-picking of teachers. I am up to the challenge. But there is one thing that is going to turn our lives upside-down, but that will have to wait for the next installment when I breach the touchy subject (at least in my family) of Catholic School.

From the Mouths of Babes Part II

"You are louding my piece of quiet."

-Atticus C.

The Cliche #2: The Minivan

I've never been much of a believer in 'the car defines the person.' I have driven whatever was most practical, most of my life that meant some Japanese car with good gas mileage. By circumstance, after Atticus was born (my second child) I ended up driving a Ford Expedition, and Hubby took over my black Honda Accord. The Expedition was a good vehicle. I think I may have even used the four-wheel-drive a few times. It was big, but very easy to drive and park. We tend to drive cars into the ground, so I planned on driving it for a few more years, at least until the repairs cost more than just buying a new car. But then I got pregnant with number three.

What I like to call "The Great Minivan Debate" began the minute I saw two lines on the pregnancy test. Hubby's reasoning was that even though the Expedition did have a third row of seats, Charlie was not yet three, could not buckle himself in and out, so I would spend a lot of time crawling in the back to buckle him in. He made me talk to friends with minivans. He humored me, and we looked at a Volvo wagon and Chrystler Pacifica, both of which had the same issue as the Expedition: no easy access into the third row.

Then came the annual vacation to Hilton Head. "Wouldn't it be nice to have the in-car DVD player so we could drive straight through and keep the kids occupied?" Yeah. In addition, seeing as we had an 18-month-old and a 3 1/2-year-old at the time, we were schlepping strollers, booster seats, and the Pack-N-Play as well as luggage. So we took up my sister-in-law's offer to borrow her van for the trip.

Our experience with the van was great. Intellectually I appreciated the fact that it was so easy to get the kids in and out, it drove like a car, there was plenty of room for all our stuff, and of course, the dvd player. When we got back from vacation, however, and the conversation turned again to needing a new vehicle, I balked. I knew plenty of people who drove their kids around in cars or SUVs. Hmmm, but did I know anyone with three kids who did?

Now, my husband works in marketing for a large bank. He understands marketing, how it often appeals to the emotions, not the intellect. I know this too, but sometimes I actually fall for it. Nissan had a TV spot for the Quest that hit the nail on the head. A husband and wife were arguing about getting a minivan, and the ad implied that the compromise would be the COOL-LOOKING minivan, the Nissan Quest. Well, I was hooked. Even though I had owned a Honda since I first became a driver, we tooled right past the best-selling minivan in the world to the Nissan Quest because I wanted the cool-looking minivan. Hubby implored me to at least look at the Honda Oddyssey, but I insisted on the Quest.

Now it is two years later. I indeed have three children, and a minivan. I hate my minivan, but not for the reasons you would expect. It's fine, silver, looks pretty cool, and definately has the practicality I needed to make my life easier. The sliding doors are the best thing. I can open the doors from 30 feet away. I hate my minivan because the Nissan Quest has a TERRIBLE turning radius. If you investigate things like turning radius when you go to buy a car, more power to ya. The thought never crossed my mind. Not only is it difficult to park under normal situations, but it is scratched up both sides from hitting the sides of my garage opening as I try to park. We have exactly 20 feet from the garage to a fence, and the only way for me to park in the garage is to back in, and, well, if you knew me, backing is not my forte.

Last week I pulled into a parking spot at the gym. Then I backed out, straighened up, and pulled in again (this is standard protocol if the parking spots aren't angled). I cut the engine and turned to my left. Parked there was a beautiful, brand-new black Honda Oddyssey. Evidently it only took Honda one season longer than Nissan to adopt the "modern styling" for the minivan. As I got out of the car I noticed the woman driving the Oddysey was just getting in.

"Your van is beautiful." I called out.

"I love it," she called back. "I was so against getting a minivan, but then we looked at this one, and it was so cool-looking I was hooked. It's so convenient for the kids, and it's so easy to park."

Sigh.

A Nightmare for the Easily Overstimulated

Every Friday I pick up my nephew from Kindergarten so we can spend the afternoon with him. My nephew goes to a private school in the city, a very expensive private school with NO PARKING. I don't mean no parking like when my hubby says "there's no food in the fridge," I mean everyone parks on side streets. It's ridiculous on the best day. I park three to four blocks away, put the baby in the stroller, the other two holding on while we navigate a cracked and uneven sidewalk that is about 36 inches away from rushing traffic. The ridiculous turns into a nightmare when the weather is even the slightest inclimate. Today it was pouring down rain.

The trek to the school was trying:

"Mommy, why don't WE have an umbrella?"

"Because I only have two hands, and I have to push the stroller."

And then there's the dawdling. At what age to children actually understand the word "hurry?" And at what age do they understand that the more slowly they walk, the longer they will be in the pouring rain, and the wetter they will get?

Anyway, we get to the school, and, as usual, panic rises in my chest. It is a complete melee of children and adults and backpacks and strollers. I am able to spot my nephew in the crowd of kids in white shirts and navy blue pants, but I've got to get checked to make sure I'm on the list, which I am, and sign him out. Then I ask, "Xander, where is your coat and backpack?"

"Over there," he responds, pointing to a round table with no less than 50 coats and backpacks. I don't even know what his coat and backpack look like, and I have left my kids unsupervised in the hallway for many minutes. Just as I am allowing myself to fully experience physiological effects of overstimulation on my body, which comprise of complete inability to move and speak, I hear Xander call out "Here they are."

So now back out into the rain with four children this time. I have instructed the 3-year-old to hold on to the stroller, and the five-year-old and six-year-old to hold hands and walk in front of me. Again we navigate the treacherous sidewalk, again we have the dawdling (why am I the ownly grownup who has to keep yelling "Walk quickly?"), and by now the baby's legs are drenched (because he is in the seated position in the stroller) and the rain has soaked through my jacket at my shoulders. We are just about to the side street on which we are parked when a bus comes by, running through a puddle in the street, and in perfect Laurel and Hardy fashion, sends a spray of water all over us.

From the Mouths of Babes

Sunday morning, trying to grasp even an extra few minutes of sleep, we let the kids play in the study. When I got up and came downstairs, I noticed they had gotten into the packs of photos in the closet, more specifically, the photos of me in the operating room during my third c-section. If I had a choice, there would not exist photos of me in the operating room during my third c-section, let alone some of the pretty graphic ones my hubby took. But there are, and the kids got into them. I gathered them up, put them away, and we headed down to breakfast.

The fact that my children were not delivered vaginally has been explained to them. When explaining "how babies are born" we were always very straightforward about the preferred method and the method by which my three sons arrived on this earth.

Later that morning, when I was getting my three-year-old dressed he said to me "Mommy, you're so pretty" (for some reason, he says this all the time). Then he said "I love you because......(something unintelligible)." I said, "What?" And he repeated himself, and this time I understood...

"I love you because they had to cut us out of your belly."

What else can I say about that?

Quote of the Day

"Instead of needing lots of children, we need high-quality children."

Margaret Mead

The Cliche #1: Soccer Mom

Hey, I'm pretty hip. I am not stuck in the 80's. I listen to a wide range of music. I wear black almost every day. I know what it means to be "snarky." So... when my five-year-old (then four) started playing soccer, and my husband informed me I was officially a "soccer mom," I was in deep denial. He smirked and said "look at yourself." I was baffled as I stood there on a early Saturday morning, which a few short years prior had been solely dedicated to sleeping off the Friday night libation. I did look at myself. What's the big deal? I sat in my folding chair in my Juicy Couture sweatsuit, next to the double stroller containing my two youngest, chatting with friends and drinking Starbuck's coffee. What's the cliche in that? But that's not really what I'm here to tell you about.

If you have never seen 4 and 5 -year-olds playing soccer, you are missing out. It is a complete melee. Coach Patty, who has been our coach for two years, does not believe in teaching kids how to play, but would rather that they develop an "instinct" for the game. Well, I don't know about that, but I have certainly seen kids kicking the ball the wrong way, picking it up with their hands, and my personal favorite, collapsing onto the ground in a wrestling match as if this were the NHL. Actually, this is not what I am here to tell you about either.

With my husband away on business, I had the great priviledge to accompany my son to soccer practice. I bundled him up in his little shin guards and soccer cleats, and prepared myself for a nice 30-minute chat with the other parents while the kids ran themselves ragged. I could not have been more wrong. What my husband didn't tell me is that's it's parent participation soccer practice. There was goalie practice, Monkey in the Middle, and for me the most painful, Sharks and Minnows. This is me vs. Charlie and basically it's a free-for-all to go after the ball, the "shark" trying to get the ball from the "minnow." Charlie has greatly improved since last season, because he's got a pretty good kick. He hauled off, going for the ball, and jabbed that little soccer shoe right on my ankle bone, almost eliciting a tear.

Just as my own little rage against the cliche we listened to blink-182 all the way home.

The Worst Craft Ever

Just a quickie... my 3-year-old brought home a craft from preschool... I think it was supposed to be an acorn, but it was decorated with dryer lint. Dryer lint. I saw a hair in there and almost threw up in my mouth. LOL.

Noggin

Noggin has these little narratives before their shows begin explaining the benefits of the show. Here's what they have to say about Atticus's new obsession, "Go Diego, Go!":

Cognitive Skills - Science

• introduces facts about real animals and habitats
  
• encourages focus on specific details
  
• models careful observation and accurate naming and description of things observed
  
• encourages exploration of the relationship between animal characteristics and environment
  
• develops awareness of the diversity of living things
  
• models using technology such as computers and cameras for scientific observation and research
  

Language and Early Literacy Skills

• develops listening skills
  
• promotes familiarity with some Spanish words
  

Social and Emotional Development

• models cooperation
  
• models asking for help when needed
  
• models an attitude of helping others
  
• models respect for the environment

Wow! Well, here's what I have to say about the benefits of "Go Diego, Go!":

• Keeps my children occupied for 20 mins so I can get a shower

What the...

This is what my son looked like when my husband took him to run errands Saturday. In case the photo is not clear, that is his soccer shirt, he has his Spiderman boxers underneath, and those are his "brown shoes" with no socks. I am far from a control freak when it comes to what my kids wear, but COME ON!

Someone Please Explain Homeschooling

Ok, I'm sure this is going to get me in big trouble with the homeschooling contingent, and make it all the more clear to Dear Reader that I am just not cut out for this job, but here goes...

Homeschooling... I don't get it. Like wiping butts, cooking food, cleaning the sty, and entertaining the inmates doesn't take enough time out of the day, there are actually people who take on the responsibility of educating their children as well.

We live in a community with a sub-standard public school system, so for the most part, people who remain in our neighborhood after their children reach schoolage either homeschool or send their kids to private schools. We moved here knowing we would be part of the second group. One of the best Catholic gradeschools in the city is right across the street from my house.

My husband came up through Catholic schools, and attributes much of his success to that. Mind you, he went to one of the most prestegious college prep high schools in the midwest, St. Charles Preparatory High School. Thank God I have all boys because we would not know where to send a girl to high school since there is no equivalent school for girls in Columbus. But I digress.

I went to public high school, but not without cost. I spent the days of my early childhood in the city schools, but then came the concept of "busing." In the late 1970s, they decided that rather than kids in Columbus going to neighborhood schools, they would bus some of the white kids to the 'hood, and bus some of the black kids to the white neighborhoods. It still amazes me that it took them almost 20 years to realize forced desegregation doesn't change social ideas. Anyway, this "busing" concept forced a good number of middle class whites in Columbus out of the city to the surrounding suburbs. From the Wiki on White Flight: "...A similar 1977 Federal decision, Penick v The Columbus Board of Education, accelerated white flight from Columbus, Ohio to its suburbs." That included my family, as we moved to a town north of the city with its own school system. In that town "middle class" meant something completely different than we were used to. But again I digress.

Now, knowing the educational background of me and my husband, you can see why we are both baffled by homeschooling. To hubby, education is something you pay for, and for me, something provided by paying property taxes. And another thing... people are educated for many years to be qualified to teach my kids how to read. How could I possibly think I could do a better job? Heck, my middle kid knows his letters and can count to 20, not to mention, he knows how to spell O-H-I-O, and I have no idea how he learned this (he's three).

Maybe the moms who homeschool (I'm not being sexist here, I'm sure there are dads who homeschool, too) have a better relationship with their kids than I do. I mean everything, especially with my oldest (age 5) is a battle. I can't even imagine what will happen when we add on the homework factor. I shudder to think how it would go if I was the one who assigned the homework.